and on either side of the road there stretched an interminable tract of
bare, ugly country with an unpleasant odor. One might have thought that
it had been ravaged by a pestilence, which had even attacked the
buildings, for skeletons of dilapidated and deserted houses, or small
cottages, which were left in an unfinished state, because the contractors
had not been paid, reared their four roofless walls on each side.

Here and there tall factory chimneys rose up from the barren soil. The
only vegetation on that putrid land, where the spring breezes wafted an
odor of petroleum and slate, blended with another odor that was even less
agreeable. At last, however, they crossed the Seine a second time, and
the bridge was a delight. The river sparkled in the sun, and they had a
feeling of quiet enjoyment, felt refreshed as they drank in the purer air
that was not impregnated by the black smoke of factories nor by the
miasma from the deposits of night soil. A man whom they met told them
that the name of the place was Bezons. Monsieur Dufour pulled up and read
the attractive announcement outside an eating house: Restaurant Poulin,
matelottes and fried fish, private rooms, arbors, and swings.

"Well, Madame Dufour, will this suit you? Will you make up your mind at
last?"

She read the announcement in her turn and then looked at the house for
some time.

It was a white country inn, built by the roadside, and through the open
door she could see the bright zinc of the counter, at which sat two
workmen in their Sunday clothes. At last she made up her mind and said:

"Yes, this will do; and, besides, there is a view."